“I have been told by people that I should not be seen clubbing with good-looking women, but I can’t see why not. Why be a pop star otherwise?” ~ James Blunt
On Saturday afternoon I was having coffee with a friend when I happened to run into a friend of another friend. She invited me to a pub she was going to in the evening with some people I knew, and then on to a club.
I went. I only intended to go to the pub, but I got there so late it would have been rude not to onto the club as well.
And it was great. I had a really good time. I danced for four and a half hours straight. I didn’t drink anything but water.
I didn’t freak out, or have a panic attack, or get paranoid by all the drunk people, the loud noise, or the smoke they kept blowing so much of that I couldn’t see.
Now, don’t worry, I’m not planning on turning this blog into a diary of every little thing that I do. It’s just that even a month ago there was no way I could have gone into a night club, never mind spent four and half hours in one; I could as easily have gone to the moon. A month ago I had a three hour melt down because my letting agent turned up an hour an half earlier than she was supposed to.
I haven’t set foot in any kind of club for at least two years. Between my broken brain and my broken body I just couldn’t have.
And on Saturday I went to one and was not only fine, I actually enjoyed myself.
And since I started writing here with a vague idea about helping people with information about being ill and recovering from being ill, it seemed like a mile stone I should mention. It is possible to get better enough to spend the wee small hours of the night in a darkened warehouse with a few of your friends, hundreds of strangers, a DJ, and a smoke machine.
Well, I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it.